As a compulsory topic in geography studies in all East African secondary schools British Columbia is taught with utmost seriousness, in my class we were taught about trees with funny names.
The rivers that transport trees as well the mountains that regulate the weather of the trees and then Vancouver in which the trees turn into paper and dollars.
Sometimes knowing the planting, felling and harvesting season of British Columbia trees stood between a national exam fail and pass.
As a result the study of North America became a lucrative business and made many celebrity teachers in Uganda who todate publish books and pamphlets. My own class teacher was known as Kula’zikulabbe, translated in English, “grow up and you will see.” MANY OF these teachers never even owned passports leave alone ever visiting BC.
Their familiarity with British Columbia like ours ends in class, as students we hated it just as much we hated studying European history; who wants to remember tongue-twisting names of foreign places. Outside of class none of use even knew how to draw the map of North America and we never cared for Douglas fir, red herring, spruce and hemlocks. It was all fantasy, academic bullshit.
That being a prelude I visited British Columbia and I’m still recovering from the pleasant shock of the Canadian west coast. British Columbia simply stuns you. Even to those that have been many times, every visit is cherished.
Even the residents of province know it well; highway posts from Nanaimo to Tofino remind you that; “you are in perhaps the most beautiful place on earth.”
The opportunity to travel to British Columbia was presented to me by Josh a friend from my local church. Josh is a young, he was Canadian born and raised in Red Deer Alberta and he is everything Canadian. He is a professional speed skater, of African descent and he can also be genial too.
Being relatively new in Canada my contribution to the trip was not really worth anything, I cannot legally operate a car in this country and I don’t know the names of places on the grid or worse; I cannot speak with this accent that makes rapping so easy for them Americans.
With this mini predicament I was left in a position of only observing and being enchanted by the natural beauty of BC. And yes, we came across the: “enchanting forest.”
Josh provided most of the observation and it does not mean I was keenly watching him like a work of Michelangelo but whenever we came across that most ubiquitous of Canadian questions: “Where do you come from?” I could not help to watch Josh explain himself.
Being black, Josh was always faced with a second "where do you originally come from sort of look?"
“I’m from Red Deer and now I live in Calgary,” I’d see doubt and disbelief on the face of the enquirer. And when the same question was directed at me and I answered east Africa I’d see approval.
Like: “I knew you were not from around here anyway.”
At one point on Long Beach I noticed a gentlemen chatting with his son, the son was draped in a Barcelona jersey and I asked both if they were football fans. The father responded with a question: “where do you come from?” I said Calgary upon which he added: “I thought you come from an exotic place like Ghana.”
Now: Really what type of question or answer was this, Chilling at Long Beach on the Pacific Ocean in Vancouver Island and this man thinks there’s a more exotic place no earth?
I thought it odd to talk about some of these incidents with Josh but he made it simple when he asked me: “what was it like growing up in a black country, surrounded by the black community?”
I did not have a particular answer so I also asked him how it felt for a black person to have grown up in a country surrounded by white people and whether he felt any sense of brotherhood with the black ones.
Josh answered me back that most times he faced a dilemma whereby his fellow countrymen were reluctant to accept and approve of him as belonging to them. Or even doubting his being a Canadian So he had to prove himself by speaking and after a while based on the things he said and how he had said them, he would be considered a bonafide Canadian. I asked him if it was frustrating growing up in this community.
On the other hand being a strict practicing Christian meant that even among his fellow black community he was in the minority too; “I am a man without a country,” he told me.
To compound his mystery, Josh earns his living teaching that most white of sports; speed skating, josh also offered to give me my first lessons In speed skating for free.
You don’t even want to hear what we talked about me, so I’ll save you the boredom.
That mostly ended our mature conversation
Skating is a game of delicate balancing and speed and when a person with a slow brain as mine needs those two skills it is a recipe for disaster. We went to Stanley Park for my first lessons; (if I were to write about Stanley park in Vancouver I’d never finish this story, so you can google it.)
Skating is quite a trend in East Africa but with our unpaved and potholed roads and even errant drivers it is not a common activity. In fact it is not even a sport, it is a marketing tool that is used by crafty politicians, musicians and businesspeople to announce new things. In fact they are known as productLAUNCH OR ROANCH as they call skatesboys in Kansanga.
The kids that skate are wizards.
Personally I learnt about skating from a television advert of the Olympic Games, IT was in late 2006 while I was finishing university and the advert always ended with a question: “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” after which there would be a guy perhaps from a Nordic country trying to skate on winter for his first time. He stumbled a number of times on the skates but finally made it and celebrated with fists raised. The advert was recorded during the 1988 Olympic Games in Calgary.
That advert left an enduring image of Canada in my memory and it was great having to skate in Vancouver.
Josh also owns a small Volkswagen beetle car that was both our means of transport and accommodation; save for some nights we spent on the beach party at the Pacific Rim in Tofino.
Caption: this little car served as our hostel too, it did not have any mechanical troubles save for a broken parking brake at Noisy Creek. I nicknamed it Volksferrari during the day for its speed and VolksFairmont at night for providing super excellent sleep.
Volksferrari increased its distance almost by 3000 kilometres from Calgary to Vancouver.
Activities
After skating we headed to watch a Baseball game at Scotiabank field inside Nat Bailey stadium with Ben Nachiman.
Josh Kron my friend from Rwanda introduced me to Ben his cousin who studies in McGill. The match was between Vancouver Canadians, (yes, as if Canadians need to remind themselves who they are, they keep having the name of the country as a brand for many things from sport to my pub favourite; Canadian.), and some team from Michigan or Missisippi.
So we watched baseball, and really what is there to write about the match? A team in white was playing another in black. There’s a lot of running, throwing, big sticks, head helmets and a mascot called chicken. The chicken dance is a crowd favourite. The crowd itself is young, vibrant and sociable. We met Ben’s friends a Fred, an Allan and a Scot.
Vancouver is rich, it is beautiful, and the city sits on a continent that hosts New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Los Angeles,and an ocean that hosts Tokyo. no superlative can describe the city more eloquent than the names of those cities. In fact Vancouver is so important that is a small brother of Hollywood in movie making. It is the true Canadian WEST.
But like a magnificent sculpture; Vancouver also has a very ugly face. After touring Stanley Park, playing football, and using free Internet at the public library we went to check out downtown Vancouver at night.
Vancouver is home to the largest Chinese community in Canada, the small-scale private sector is almost run entirely by the Chinese and Asian community, there are also other communities that work in the forests, fishing and tourism industries. Vancouver is also among the most diverse metropolitans in North America.
At a Broadway restaurant Five dollars afforded me two cold beers and a very decent meal.
We reached downtown core at about 10pm and by that time Vancouver was deserted of all its glamour, the expensive cars, elegance and braggadocio for which the city in renown; was off. There were instead homeless people, hungry people that congregated in circles resembling Internally Displaced Camps; bleu collars pubs, marijuana pushers and the riff raffs.
People just watching time, people who watch Vancouver every other day their entire lives in the same way I was watching it for the first time.
Yet even amongst this crowd in the city centre there was free and safe drinking water for pedestrians provided by the city, there were also smoking areas where young girls and boys sat and were in conversation till late in the night.
Street industry was at work; people vended cheap and fake contraband of all kinds, touts were screaming as if it was mid morning. One was selling a pack of Marlboro lights at a meager 5 dollars.
Seen closely, Vancouver is just another big city full of hustlers, posher people, the nobles and fine people; each running a different show and pretending to get along just fine. But seen from the ocean and the mountains that stare down upon it, it is the most beautiful place on earth.
Whether it is the most beautiful place on earth you can argue, what you cannot doubt however is that the greater Vancouver area has the most beautiful scenery ever seen on earth.
Mountains, trees, water, waterfalls, lakes, architecture and anything else that symbolizes beauty, power and man’s industry they have. In fact one does not need to be a professional to take a good picture in British Columbia, everywhere you focus the camera captures amazing features. On their vehicles the message is even more clearer: “Beautiful British Columbia.”
Vancouver Island
There’s nothing really to write about the island. It is simply covered by forests, mountains and surrounded by the ocean.
Like the entire BC it is also a favourite holiday spot, on the roads Canadians and international visitors dragged along parts of their lives to enjoy the beauty of the Canadian west coast.
Vehicles pull boats, carbins, go-carts, dogs, and motorcycles. I wondered what is the whole point of holidays when everyone seemed to be dragging along a part of his or her lives on the road that they seemed not intent on leaving behind.
There seemed to be no gate away after all.
This seemed to make sense when all conversations involved; “what did you do today?, did you go fishing, did you surf?, did you hike in the forest, most times I had no answer to these questions. I was happy enough that I was on the island.
There was always enough time to do everything. Or nothing. After all, most times being here was less about doing and more about just being in this magic place.
We slept in the safety of the Pacific Rim National Park and set up tent by the beach, this place hosts many campers especially young students from other parts of Canada who come during the summer to work and have a good time.
Whenever Josh spoke of the next plan I wanted to scream at him, in fact he was so occupied with planning that while we were on this trip he was planning his next activity. And as if to show that even the best laid plans can have unforeseen turns, while returning back we were stopped along the highway as an accident had blocked off all traffic going east from Schuswap.
The Volksferrari hence detoured and spent sometime in schuswap flea market before heading to Noisy Creek to spend a night in the jungle by the lakeside. The drive to Noisy creek (that is the most misleading of names as Noisy creek is among the most noise free places.)
First it is a 60 km drive from the highway and almost all homes are built by the riverbank or lakeside. There are huge ranches, cornfields, factories and old colonial buildings.
A parked Mercedes Benz that looks like it has been in that mode for many years signals a turn off at one roadside junction leading to a country house.
Because of the enormous mountains and elegant trees in British Columbia lakes and rivers appear almost out of nowhere. Driving on the road you’ll think there’s a lake or river at every turn of the highway.
The highway itself is very busy with people traveling between the major cities it lines, these cities include Calgary, Abbotsford, Winnipeg, Regina to the last frontier of Canada; Vancouver.
Kagame,
ends.
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
Monday, 20 September 2010
Musoni said government had abolished tax charges on agricultural products in the country; however he said the increase of food prices was because of increasing fuel prices.
He called upon Rwandans to be more active in determining the standards of the commodities they consume; “Rwandans should be more active consumers. They should question the sellers (of services and goods) instead of relying on government to make all the decisions.”
Increasing food prices have been the cause of political violence and death in and will present future concerns like war according to UN secretary general Ban Ki Moon
Monday, 13 September 2010
From the Hammock :The tale of the feet and the hair
By George Kagame.
It’s not the fault of hair that the feet are hidden far away from the pedestal of the anatomy and therefore like a front display rack in a shop; the head is perfectly organized and made beautiful beyond its natural disposition while in all matters feet are literally and figuratively down the pecking order.
The feet and the bum
The feet and their immediate neighbour; the bum are sometimes taken with delicate concern and attention.
The sort that requires concentration skills only acquired by scientists of note, forsome women and lately men, the hair and bum are two issues of paramount importance.
Even the WEIRD, (Western Educated, Industrialized, Rich and Democratic); where they mock Africans for our love of “booty”, they also revere bums as is illustrated by respectable East African Charles OnyangoObbo;
“In many countries, even health-conscious women who exercise to lose weight worry about the bottoms shrinking with the rest of the body. As a result, there are many quack regimes for losing weight in all parts of the body, but the “bumper”.
The business of bums and the hair indeed is a major industry in their own right. Particularly for hair it is not just a couple follicles coming out of the scalp; and for others it is a line between opportunity and catastrophe.
But generally many of us never care about the shape and features of our feet; but ironically it is safe to state that a man without hair and without a pair of shoes is indeed a mark of poverty, one we would rather avoid on the street.
And there’s some truth in the modern proverb that a man without hair spends his money and time on his feet=MOBILITY.
A case for Hair
Some Indians wrap their hair up in a weird robe to resemble a pyramid on top of their anatomies; the Iranians have just decreed a legally accepted haircut while the mullahs in Afghanistan have long imposed a strict beard policy.
In my little island hometown on a lake, I saw village women literally burning their skulls with hot combs to perm their hair into curls. It seemed there was a decree that African men were not allowed to grow long hair such that they would be able to take care of their womens’ hair.
Try not facilitating your woman’s visit to a salon and you’ll know what that means.
Hair control was very liberal toward girls and later in puberty when the girls decided to wear things on their heads that resembled the feathers of the rear side of a chicken, not an eyebrow was raised.
But even historically, women’s hair and what they did with it were never a threat to the periodical rulerman of past and present. Forget what you read about the Islamic Burka.
At boarding school; boys were routinely required to report for a mandatory haircut on weekends. Nobody asked if the nails were cut or teeth brushed, ears cleaned but the hair had to be short at all times.
In the unlikely event that a boy let his hair grow long or took effort in his appearing it was taken as a sign of crafty behaviour. And the widely held opinion was that boys who took too much care in their appearance were gay.
And being gay was so horrible that imagining the thing was in itself an evil.
Psychology books arrived and informed that us that actually men were more scared of being bald than impotent and to eliminate the fear of a bald; modern African man decided that keeping a clean shaven head was an eternal solution.
The colonial had of course the short hair policy baldness withstanding.The colonialist in Africa decreed that the people in his control were prohibited from growing more than an inch of hair.
Heaven forbid if your hair grew longer. As happened, all those that were not direct beneficiaries of the colonialist grew long hair as a protest.
The colonialist not a fool, decided that only devil worshipers and socially inadequate people allowed their hair to grow long.
The marine cut
The army men apparently insist on a hair policy because it exudes hygiene and discipline or so Tony my brother says he was told in training.
“Short hair is a mark of hygiene and discipline as is brushing your teeth in the morning.” Hair, its style or texture is stuff I must not bore you with on a Sunday afternoon but it is something else altogether — singular in its capacity to command interest and carry cultural baggage.
And allowing my hair to grow longer recently has created situations and the catalyst for a conversation that begins with style but quickly transcends outward appearance and ultimately transcends many images and symbols.
According to TIME magazine, nobody has put more significance on hair than US first lady Michelle Obama, the changes in her hairstyle from coiled strands to fully straightened on occassionshas brought to the table the question; “Is it the chemicals of heat?” and what is the normal and accepted symbol for black people’s status in terms of beauty, acceptance and power?
donuwagiwabo@gmail.com
It’s not the fault of hair that the feet are hidden far away from the pedestal of the anatomy and therefore like a front display rack in a shop; the head is perfectly organized and made beautiful beyond its natural disposition while in all matters feet are literally and figuratively down the pecking order.
The feet and the bum
The feet and their immediate neighbour; the bum are sometimes taken with delicate concern and attention.
The sort that requires concentration skills only acquired by scientists of note, forsome women and lately men, the hair and bum are two issues of paramount importance.
Even the WEIRD, (Western Educated, Industrialized, Rich and Democratic); where they mock Africans for our love of “booty”, they also revere bums as is illustrated by respectable East African Charles OnyangoObbo;
“In many countries, even health-conscious women who exercise to lose weight worry about the bottoms shrinking with the rest of the body. As a result, there are many quack regimes for losing weight in all parts of the body, but the “bumper”.
The business of bums and the hair indeed is a major industry in their own right. Particularly for hair it is not just a couple follicles coming out of the scalp; and for others it is a line between opportunity and catastrophe.
But generally many of us never care about the shape and features of our feet; but ironically it is safe to state that a man without hair and without a pair of shoes is indeed a mark of poverty, one we would rather avoid on the street.
And there’s some truth in the modern proverb that a man without hair spends his money and time on his feet=MOBILITY.
A case for Hair
Some Indians wrap their hair up in a weird robe to resemble a pyramid on top of their anatomies; the Iranians have just decreed a legally accepted haircut while the mullahs in Afghanistan have long imposed a strict beard policy.
In my little island hometown on a lake, I saw village women literally burning their skulls with hot combs to perm their hair into curls. It seemed there was a decree that African men were not allowed to grow long hair such that they would be able to take care of their womens’ hair.
Try not facilitating your woman’s visit to a salon and you’ll know what that means.
Hair control was very liberal toward girls and later in puberty when the girls decided to wear things on their heads that resembled the feathers of the rear side of a chicken, not an eyebrow was raised.
But even historically, women’s hair and what they did with it were never a threat to the periodical rulerman of past and present. Forget what you read about the Islamic Burka.
At boarding school; boys were routinely required to report for a mandatory haircut on weekends. Nobody asked if the nails were cut or teeth brushed, ears cleaned but the hair had to be short at all times.
In the unlikely event that a boy let his hair grow long or took effort in his appearing it was taken as a sign of crafty behaviour. And the widely held opinion was that boys who took too much care in their appearance were gay.
And being gay was so horrible that imagining the thing was in itself an evil.
Psychology books arrived and informed that us that actually men were more scared of being bald than impotent and to eliminate the fear of a bald; modern African man decided that keeping a clean shaven head was an eternal solution.
The colonial had of course the short hair policy baldness withstanding.The colonialist in Africa decreed that the people in his control were prohibited from growing more than an inch of hair.
Heaven forbid if your hair grew longer. As happened, all those that were not direct beneficiaries of the colonialist grew long hair as a protest.
The colonialist not a fool, decided that only devil worshipers and socially inadequate people allowed their hair to grow long.
The marine cut
The army men apparently insist on a hair policy because it exudes hygiene and discipline or so Tony my brother says he was told in training.
“Short hair is a mark of hygiene and discipline as is brushing your teeth in the morning.” Hair, its style or texture is stuff I must not bore you with on a Sunday afternoon but it is something else altogether — singular in its capacity to command interest and carry cultural baggage.
And allowing my hair to grow longer recently has created situations and the catalyst for a conversation that begins with style but quickly transcends outward appearance and ultimately transcends many images and symbols.
According to TIME magazine, nobody has put more significance on hair than US first lady Michelle Obama, the changes in her hairstyle from coiled strands to fully straightened on occassionshas brought to the table the question; “Is it the chemicals of heat?” and what is the normal and accepted symbol for black people’s status in terms of beauty, acceptance and power?
donuwagiwabo@gmail.com
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Head boy; head girl and the Walkman
GEORGE KAGAME
As students we were meant to discover and learn our individual career paths and launch ourselves to the world.
Some of my classmates decided they wanted be lawyers, some soldiers, others Pan humanists, doctors and policemen.
The school administration prudently divided our class into two parallel segments; each announcing the intentions of the members as “sciences” or ‘ARTS.”
In the event that one changed their minds along the way and wanted to change directions we had a big man eloquently titled as “Career’s Master,” it was always a guy and many usually spotted a weird moustache. That kind you see on streets resembling wings of an eagle above the upper lip.
Among the supposed functions of a careers’ master was to teach us things like writing resumes, cover letters for jobs on top of advising about the link between potential; profession and impact.
But in most cases the careers’ master was also the disciplinary master; the later was eternally hated. He enforced the rules of the school to the letter. The problem was that his rules were more numerous and demanding than those of the school.
The disciplinary master on one occasion addressed me in front of assembled students; “George; I’m going to put you on a kiboko diet,” the next seven days after this statement I reported at his house in the morning to be lashed ten times.
I disrespected this man and his office; I could never bring myself to face him leave alone career advice and in fact I detested his profession.
According to him it was easy to find undisciplined students; they wore caps, never tucked in their shirts, talked to girls, “A lot,” liked music and grew long hair. If at all one of the above features described one; they would be under the watchful and nosy eye of Ngobi.
But the careers’ master was not the only culprit in making teachers look like a page from a dictators book. The entire teaching staff reveled in fear and awe; they made laws, made us kneel for them, fetch their water and for some girls, to make their meals.
They operated like a nobility, identifying students that were good and different from the undisciplined cases.
The good students sang in the church choir, attended all prayers, talked with teachers a lot and always tucked in their shirts; many were appointed into leadership positions. Even the timekeeper possessed considerable authority so as to make a student’s life miserable.
The students’ body was the bridge between the school management team and the students and was on paper meant to be voted and representative of the students’ community. And yes; we participated in the elections but they were a sham as the teachers appointed whomever they felt deserved to be what in the guild.
The entire students guild were teacher favourites; from the awkwardly named “head boy” and “head girl” to the timekeeper. And then there were others chosen in the service of the lord. They were our age mates but we referred to them as; “elders” because of their wisdom and dedication to all matters church.
It seemed the teachers were only interested in grooming students who were keen on becoming teachers, activities like fashion and design were even abandoned and heaven forbid if a student dressed in a manner that suggested popular style.
It happened onetime; a girl wore a short skirt to the dining hall where the disciplinary master was holding fort. Upon seeing the girl approach the serving table Mr. Ngobbi literally detained her and the poor girl was sent home to bring her parents who would have to explain where it is that their girl had learned this style of dressing.
After this incident, Ngobbi decreed that the school uniform was the only accepted clothing for students during the school term. Heaven forbid if at all a student was caught with a shirt or t-shirt that was not part of the school uniform.
The most dramatic decree however was the ban on anything that produced sound; having or listening to a radio was tantamount to calamity.
Consider that in our time music was different from what it is today; a Walkman was an important gadget to have; the mother of all gadgets. The kid with a Walkman was the coolest kid in town. The Walkman had FM radio that played the latest tunes “hit after hit” and the savvy of us connected the thing to small speakers for communal and hence a party. Friday night was particularly popular with “Rasta rob on the master knob.”
But walkmans were banned in the school and if a student was found with one; (a), the Walkman was subjected to many lashes of the cane until it broke up into many un-adjustable particles, (b) the student was subjected to 20 lashes plus the usual mowing the lawn of the compound and “masters quarters.”
Depending on the day, some teachers just confiscated the Walkman instead of smashing it into pieces on the floor.
Beyond sinning however was to the act of escaping from school to go off campus; it was abominable. Jose Chameleon was one of the usual suspects and culprits of the crime of escaping from school to go to Wobulenzi, a nearby city and from this point the mark was laid on Chameleon that he is “a bad boy,” and boys like him were promptly expelled from the school regularly.
To be continued….
As students we were meant to discover and learn our individual career paths and launch ourselves to the world.
Some of my classmates decided they wanted be lawyers, some soldiers, others Pan humanists, doctors and policemen.
The school administration prudently divided our class into two parallel segments; each announcing the intentions of the members as “sciences” or ‘ARTS.”
In the event that one changed their minds along the way and wanted to change directions we had a big man eloquently titled as “Career’s Master,” it was always a guy and many usually spotted a weird moustache. That kind you see on streets resembling wings of an eagle above the upper lip.
Among the supposed functions of a careers’ master was to teach us things like writing resumes, cover letters for jobs on top of advising about the link between potential; profession and impact.
But in most cases the careers’ master was also the disciplinary master; the later was eternally hated. He enforced the rules of the school to the letter. The problem was that his rules were more numerous and demanding than those of the school.
The disciplinary master on one occasion addressed me in front of assembled students; “George; I’m going to put you on a kiboko diet,” the next seven days after this statement I reported at his house in the morning to be lashed ten times.
I disrespected this man and his office; I could never bring myself to face him leave alone career advice and in fact I detested his profession.
According to him it was easy to find undisciplined students; they wore caps, never tucked in their shirts, talked to girls, “A lot,” liked music and grew long hair. If at all one of the above features described one; they would be under the watchful and nosy eye of Ngobi.
But the careers’ master was not the only culprit in making teachers look like a page from a dictators book. The entire teaching staff reveled in fear and awe; they made laws, made us kneel for them, fetch their water and for some girls, to make their meals.
They operated like a nobility, identifying students that were good and different from the undisciplined cases.
The good students sang in the church choir, attended all prayers, talked with teachers a lot and always tucked in their shirts; many were appointed into leadership positions. Even the timekeeper possessed considerable authority so as to make a student’s life miserable.
The students’ body was the bridge between the school management team and the students and was on paper meant to be voted and representative of the students’ community. And yes; we participated in the elections but they were a sham as the teachers appointed whomever they felt deserved to be what in the guild.
The entire students guild were teacher favourites; from the awkwardly named “head boy” and “head girl” to the timekeeper. And then there were others chosen in the service of the lord. They were our age mates but we referred to them as; “elders” because of their wisdom and dedication to all matters church.
It seemed the teachers were only interested in grooming students who were keen on becoming teachers, activities like fashion and design were even abandoned and heaven forbid if a student dressed in a manner that suggested popular style.
It happened onetime; a girl wore a short skirt to the dining hall where the disciplinary master was holding fort. Upon seeing the girl approach the serving table Mr. Ngobbi literally detained her and the poor girl was sent home to bring her parents who would have to explain where it is that their girl had learned this style of dressing.
After this incident, Ngobbi decreed that the school uniform was the only accepted clothing for students during the school term. Heaven forbid if at all a student was caught with a shirt or t-shirt that was not part of the school uniform.
The most dramatic decree however was the ban on anything that produced sound; having or listening to a radio was tantamount to calamity.
Consider that in our time music was different from what it is today; a Walkman was an important gadget to have; the mother of all gadgets. The kid with a Walkman was the coolest kid in town. The Walkman had FM radio that played the latest tunes “hit after hit” and the savvy of us connected the thing to small speakers for communal and hence a party. Friday night was particularly popular with “Rasta rob on the master knob.”
But walkmans were banned in the school and if a student was found with one; (a), the Walkman was subjected to many lashes of the cane until it broke up into many un-adjustable particles, (b) the student was subjected to 20 lashes plus the usual mowing the lawn of the compound and “masters quarters.”
Depending on the day, some teachers just confiscated the Walkman instead of smashing it into pieces on the floor.
Beyond sinning however was to the act of escaping from school to go off campus; it was abominable. Jose Chameleon was one of the usual suspects and culprits of the crime of escaping from school to go to Wobulenzi, a nearby city and from this point the mark was laid on Chameleon that he is “a bad boy,” and boys like him were promptly expelled from the school regularly.
To be continued….
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
A VIP and supermodel’s night at a party and day in court
By George Kagame
A story about Africa involving some important and fine; and even ones that Nigerian legend Fela Kuti called Vagabonds in Power-VIPs is in the offing.
But it is so far away from here that even writing about it is a tough wit game, which is afforded only to a columnist. It is far away in the priorities of relevance, proximity and eminence. But a story is never strange; after all it is just that, a story.
The theatre is at The Hague in Netherlands and Supermodels and cameras grace it with one of those catwalk galleries that are decorated.
And they don’t come bigger or even better than Naomi Campbell; that graceful of women and she is appearing in a de’ja’vu scene where ghosts are playing tricks on her. She even now looks troubled or trodden; I swear, look at her face.
Her cast involves Charles Tayor playing the role of illegitimate African leader and the drama is completed with wigged lawyers; they look like Father Christmas.
I have been in one such court at Arusha where a cousin of The Hague; the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is trying genocide suspects. It was like a play, life was reduced to eloquent elite debate laced with figures, colours, cars and talk; everyday I walked into that court I was tempted to spit at the fat security guards and even fatter bureaucrats.
But who wants all that narrative really?
A day in court
In other news; Naomi Campbell; she of the long neck, beautiful eyes, even more beautiful legs that stretch up to her shoulders and curves that only God can design. But you can put all that in past tense now.
Charles Taylor drools upon her at one party in Pretoria in 1997, they get cozy and flirt; looking deep in their exotic Africa eyes.
Taylor, in the game of wooing and perhaps even reveling in the benefits of wooing decides to gift Naomi Campbell with a diamond. Read that again; a couple diamond stones.
It is even juicier for us common folk. We talk about cars, houses, envy the fine people and even dream of having custom made women like Naomi. It takes diamonds my friend. Diamond.
I have never seen a real diamond myself and I can’t comprehend why the goddamn stone along with gold is used as a measure of prestige and power the world over. And why they attract women the way pollen grain attracts bees. Hell, I cannot even tell the difference between diamond and silver.
I hear they got the thing aplenty in Congo and it is traded in Goma for just two hundred dollars but true; haki ya mungu, even after visiting Goma many times; I have no idea what is the BIG DEAL. I see hustlers selling fake jewel on the streets in east Africa but I have never bought a stone other than those used in construction.
I have heard that stones have many movies about them, movies about guns, grim looking African chiefs, even grimmer muscled guys with machetes, as well as a couple massacred women and babies’ bodies putting in appearances.
True; in the name of God; diamonds are a HUGE DEAL. I have watched Tears in the Sun and Blood Diamonds both based on true stories.
Forget all that about the oil and its petro dollars ah well, maybe we shall keep the oil secrets for another day; there’s a possibility that Omar El Bashir of Sudan offered supermodel Tyra Banks an oil well; you never know!
I hear The Hague is also keen on getting the Arab man for torturing his black countrymen in the south; never mind that these ones have no stones yet.
Back to our story, think of a climax; no make that a threesome, VIPs and super beauties mingling and flirting a recipe for disaster.
That exactly leads to the scene in the International Criminal Court at The Hague where diamonds, superbeauties, powerful men and parties swing from possible one nightstand and its wits.
Naomi is asked to tell on herself in the court of law, the gift of diamonds from Taylor and their late night party in South Africa; she says: “seriously, I have never heard of Liberia and I don’t even know where it is on the map.”
Never mind the diamonds actually came from Sierra Leone; but that is a story for another day.
Damn it, Naomi must treat diamonds the way you treat your food.
Imagine the difficulty you’d face if you had to explain the details of the food served on your table everyday. Are you expected to know about fries, chicken, vegetables and milk? Who grows it, who is responsible for its constant flow, how is it planted? Are the planters paid anyway? Do they have children?
Hell; even my nosy neighbour would be cautious asking such many questions at every single meal!
Working class people getting along
In fact lets getaway with the questions about fair trade, imaginations and even the self-righteousness. Lets have a good conversation, lets talk about gender relations, a woman, a president=gender and power relations, a presidential backpack that carries dirty diamonds to a late night party and a super model. Working class people getting along
Imagine a black supermodel in England, with all the attention and attraction in the world, then Taylor an African corrupt leader walking about as a pimp.
Ah wait, he is a descendant of freed African slaves in North America who were forcibly returned at the end of slavery and resettled in Liberia and Sierra Leone.
The former slaves in turn became kings and queens in the free countries; they even renamed one city Free Town. Many of the returnees became princes and chiefs in literal and figurative forms. Ever wondered why so many West Africans come with names such as Prince, King, and Chief? Just like you hear those arrogant British go around with Sir, Lord, viscount, Earl and my favourite duke.
The prosecuting team in the case against Charles Taylor is smooth; you have to give it to them for getting their case to the front pages and even hidden ones like the one you are reading right now.
Because would you really not give Naomi Campbell a diamond if you had some?
And; is it not ironical that the blood diamonds were sold and worn in Europe and now it is in Europe that their retribution is taking place?
A story about Africa involving some important and fine; and even ones that Nigerian legend Fela Kuti called Vagabonds in Power-VIPs is in the offing.
But it is so far away from here that even writing about it is a tough wit game, which is afforded only to a columnist. It is far away in the priorities of relevance, proximity and eminence. But a story is never strange; after all it is just that, a story.
The theatre is at The Hague in Netherlands and Supermodels and cameras grace it with one of those catwalk galleries that are decorated.
And they don’t come bigger or even better than Naomi Campbell; that graceful of women and she is appearing in a de’ja’vu scene where ghosts are playing tricks on her. She even now looks troubled or trodden; I swear, look at her face.
Her cast involves Charles Tayor playing the role of illegitimate African leader and the drama is completed with wigged lawyers; they look like Father Christmas.
I have been in one such court at Arusha where a cousin of The Hague; the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is trying genocide suspects. It was like a play, life was reduced to eloquent elite debate laced with figures, colours, cars and talk; everyday I walked into that court I was tempted to spit at the fat security guards and even fatter bureaucrats.
But who wants all that narrative really?
A day in court
In other news; Naomi Campbell; she of the long neck, beautiful eyes, even more beautiful legs that stretch up to her shoulders and curves that only God can design. But you can put all that in past tense now.
Charles Taylor drools upon her at one party in Pretoria in 1997, they get cozy and flirt; looking deep in their exotic Africa eyes.
Taylor, in the game of wooing and perhaps even reveling in the benefits of wooing decides to gift Naomi Campbell with a diamond. Read that again; a couple diamond stones.
It is even juicier for us common folk. We talk about cars, houses, envy the fine people and even dream of having custom made women like Naomi. It takes diamonds my friend. Diamond.
I have never seen a real diamond myself and I can’t comprehend why the goddamn stone along with gold is used as a measure of prestige and power the world over. And why they attract women the way pollen grain attracts bees. Hell, I cannot even tell the difference between diamond and silver.
I hear they got the thing aplenty in Congo and it is traded in Goma for just two hundred dollars but true; haki ya mungu, even after visiting Goma many times; I have no idea what is the BIG DEAL. I see hustlers selling fake jewel on the streets in east Africa but I have never bought a stone other than those used in construction.
I have heard that stones have many movies about them, movies about guns, grim looking African chiefs, even grimmer muscled guys with machetes, as well as a couple massacred women and babies’ bodies putting in appearances.
True; in the name of God; diamonds are a HUGE DEAL. I have watched Tears in the Sun and Blood Diamonds both based on true stories.
Forget all that about the oil and its petro dollars ah well, maybe we shall keep the oil secrets for another day; there’s a possibility that Omar El Bashir of Sudan offered supermodel Tyra Banks an oil well; you never know!
I hear The Hague is also keen on getting the Arab man for torturing his black countrymen in the south; never mind that these ones have no stones yet.
Back to our story, think of a climax; no make that a threesome, VIPs and super beauties mingling and flirting a recipe for disaster.
That exactly leads to the scene in the International Criminal Court at The Hague where diamonds, superbeauties, powerful men and parties swing from possible one nightstand and its wits.
Naomi is asked to tell on herself in the court of law, the gift of diamonds from Taylor and their late night party in South Africa; she says: “seriously, I have never heard of Liberia and I don’t even know where it is on the map.”
Never mind the diamonds actually came from Sierra Leone; but that is a story for another day.
Damn it, Naomi must treat diamonds the way you treat your food.
Imagine the difficulty you’d face if you had to explain the details of the food served on your table everyday. Are you expected to know about fries, chicken, vegetables and milk? Who grows it, who is responsible for its constant flow, how is it planted? Are the planters paid anyway? Do they have children?
Hell; even my nosy neighbour would be cautious asking such many questions at every single meal!
Working class people getting along
In fact lets getaway with the questions about fair trade, imaginations and even the self-righteousness. Lets have a good conversation, lets talk about gender relations, a woman, a president=gender and power relations, a presidential backpack that carries dirty diamonds to a late night party and a super model. Working class people getting along
Imagine a black supermodel in England, with all the attention and attraction in the world, then Taylor an African corrupt leader walking about as a pimp.
Ah wait, he is a descendant of freed African slaves in North America who were forcibly returned at the end of slavery and resettled in Liberia and Sierra Leone.
The former slaves in turn became kings and queens in the free countries; they even renamed one city Free Town. Many of the returnees became princes and chiefs in literal and figurative forms. Ever wondered why so many West Africans come with names such as Prince, King, and Chief? Just like you hear those arrogant British go around with Sir, Lord, viscount, Earl and my favourite duke.
The prosecuting team in the case against Charles Taylor is smooth; you have to give it to them for getting their case to the front pages and even hidden ones like the one you are reading right now.
Because would you really not give Naomi Campbell a diamond if you had some?
And; is it not ironical that the blood diamonds were sold and worn in Europe and now it is in Europe that their retribution is taking place?
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Of celebrity baby mountain gorillas
Insights :
GEORGE
Zoya is not your regular baby; he is the coolest baby in town. Even I am not familiar with his details but I know of his baptism day. You see his baptism day is so important that soon future babies of his kind will have a national holiday declared on the day they get baptized.
Zoya comes from Citi and in that country matters of religion are very important, make that crucial. So like many of his countrymen, among whose names are such statements of commitment such as sonofGod, slaveofmaria, oneforyezu,godgivesbirth, and onewhotrusts, feature prominently.
As a result, People with such names take matters of God serious and therefore on the occasion that their not so distant cousin Zoya gets christened everyone of note in Citiattends without fail.
Zoya’s baptism party is so important that the first Citiman attends, and no not just him; how about Natalie Portman, Jack Hanna and Don Cheadle, he of Hotel Rwanda?
Damn it, on the day I got baptized I went to the gym right after the ceremony and to cap off the day I went to an evening shift. And these two are so important that a whole managing director of a national daily newspaper has to call me urgently to cover it or else I see the cold of the night of Citi. That is not a predicament you’d want to be in at any moment of your life, or wish even to your enemy to be in. This place can be cold!
As I lazily walk up to these baby gorillas I try to search anything that can get me a story, a story of today. Do they have longer hair, are they smiling these days, do they blink, do they want to ask me; “seriously, what are you doing here?” And maybe even tell me a proverb about my stupidity in their language telling of their opinions about my presence.
But they cannot and if they attempt any games I have my press card ready so I will be explained if Zoya and Wakawaka call for security, wait a minute do they even know about security?
All the posh people, fine people, not fine people, peasants, and the noblemen of Citi show up at the cathedral of the mountain gorilla’s baptism party, each to pay their respects.
The cynic of this most prestigious of ceremonies in Citiwill call it drama; they will dismiss the event and protest by continuing to live their even more boring lives. But people of note know what is important, so on the day that Zoya and friend get baptized, the red carpet is thrown out full circle.
True of God, hakiyamungu I was there. I saw with my own eyes.
I watched Zoya with interest and even tried to catch his/her stare. I could not tell if he was boy or girl. He is a gorilla for Christ’s sake! I cannot ask him, I don’t speak his language neither does he mine. For me he is an assignment I have been sent here all the way from my kingdom in the town and I’m hungry, this place with its forests, mountains and people who are staring at me like I’m a picture.
MAYBE I’m a picture; I can make much more sense without words. They say a picture is a thousand words. People appear smarter before they speak.
So I don’t want to ask the whereabouts of this Zoya kid and friend, and for me he is not just an animal; it his birthday party and that is a story. I have many questions about his coolness. How does he do it, get all these important people to attend his party?
Do you know how hard it is to have a party in your honour? Ask yourself how many parties have been held for you? Who attended, who laughed, who took pictures, were they published in international newspapers and magazines around the world?
Clearly I’m jealous of these two.
I saw earlier in the tent guests were signing autographs, taking pictures, drinks, speeches, laughter and handshakes. I was not interested in all that. I wanted to meet this Zoya. By Zoya’s side was another baby mountain gorilla baptized as Wakawaka on the same day.
Now two mountains gorillas having a baptism party and they are hidden far away from their own fete? Maybe they asked for some privacy and only wanted to come out to wave to the crowd just like Nelson Mandela during the 2010 World Cup in South Africa recently.
And talk of South Africa; that is where the name Wakawaka became memorable with Shakira being its most eloquent acquaintance.
While I was walking towards the ceremony I met a man on the roadside, he is a local and his people have lived in Citi for hundreds of years. He was short, in fact too short that I thought he was a young boy; I wanted to ask him, “Are you married, do you have kids?” Turned out he is a father of three children and the eldest is 21. His second wife is expecting a forth child.
He appeared to be wondering how things in Citi had changed, two baby mountain gorillas were big celebrities, almost signing autographs and he was just watching things unfolding like he was watching a horror movie.
Footnote: mountain gorillas are highly endangered species and need the utmost attention of all mankind, as they are our closest related creatures. So please Giv a little less attention to your cats and dogs and think about mountain gorillas and their birthday parties too.
GEORGE
Zoya is not your regular baby; he is the coolest baby in town. Even I am not familiar with his details but I know of his baptism day. You see his baptism day is so important that soon future babies of his kind will have a national holiday declared on the day they get baptized.
Zoya comes from Citi and in that country matters of religion are very important, make that crucial. So like many of his countrymen, among whose names are such statements of commitment such as sonofGod, slaveofmaria, oneforyezu,godgivesbirth, and onewhotrusts, feature prominently.
As a result, People with such names take matters of God serious and therefore on the occasion that their not so distant cousin Zoya gets christened everyone of note in Citiattends without fail.
Zoya’s baptism party is so important that the first Citiman attends, and no not just him; how about Natalie Portman, Jack Hanna and Don Cheadle, he of Hotel Rwanda?
Damn it, on the day I got baptized I went to the gym right after the ceremony and to cap off the day I went to an evening shift. And these two are so important that a whole managing director of a national daily newspaper has to call me urgently to cover it or else I see the cold of the night of Citi. That is not a predicament you’d want to be in at any moment of your life, or wish even to your enemy to be in. This place can be cold!
As I lazily walk up to these baby gorillas I try to search anything that can get me a story, a story of today. Do they have longer hair, are they smiling these days, do they blink, do they want to ask me; “seriously, what are you doing here?” And maybe even tell me a proverb about my stupidity in their language telling of their opinions about my presence.
But they cannot and if they attempt any games I have my press card ready so I will be explained if Zoya and Wakawaka call for security, wait a minute do they even know about security?
All the posh people, fine people, not fine people, peasants, and the noblemen of Citi show up at the cathedral of the mountain gorilla’s baptism party, each to pay their respects.
The cynic of this most prestigious of ceremonies in Citiwill call it drama; they will dismiss the event and protest by continuing to live their even more boring lives. But people of note know what is important, so on the day that Zoya and friend get baptized, the red carpet is thrown out full circle.
True of God, hakiyamungu I was there. I saw with my own eyes.
I watched Zoya with interest and even tried to catch his/her stare. I could not tell if he was boy or girl. He is a gorilla for Christ’s sake! I cannot ask him, I don’t speak his language neither does he mine. For me he is an assignment I have been sent here all the way from my kingdom in the town and I’m hungry, this place with its forests, mountains and people who are staring at me like I’m a picture.
MAYBE I’m a picture; I can make much more sense without words. They say a picture is a thousand words. People appear smarter before they speak.
So I don’t want to ask the whereabouts of this Zoya kid and friend, and for me he is not just an animal; it his birthday party and that is a story. I have many questions about his coolness. How does he do it, get all these important people to attend his party?
Do you know how hard it is to have a party in your honour? Ask yourself how many parties have been held for you? Who attended, who laughed, who took pictures, were they published in international newspapers and magazines around the world?
Clearly I’m jealous of these two.
I saw earlier in the tent guests were signing autographs, taking pictures, drinks, speeches, laughter and handshakes. I was not interested in all that. I wanted to meet this Zoya. By Zoya’s side was another baby mountain gorilla baptized as Wakawaka on the same day.
Now two mountains gorillas having a baptism party and they are hidden far away from their own fete? Maybe they asked for some privacy and only wanted to come out to wave to the crowd just like Nelson Mandela during the 2010 World Cup in South Africa recently.
And talk of South Africa; that is where the name Wakawaka became memorable with Shakira being its most eloquent acquaintance.
While I was walking towards the ceremony I met a man on the roadside, he is a local and his people have lived in Citi for hundreds of years. He was short, in fact too short that I thought he was a young boy; I wanted to ask him, “Are you married, do you have kids?” Turned out he is a father of three children and the eldest is 21. His second wife is expecting a forth child.
He appeared to be wondering how things in Citi had changed, two baby mountain gorillas were big celebrities, almost signing autographs and he was just watching things unfolding like he was watching a horror movie.
Footnote: mountain gorillas are highly endangered species and need the utmost attention of all mankind, as they are our closest related creatures. So please Giv a little less attention to your cats and dogs and think about mountain gorillas and their birthday parties too.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
THE EASTER STORY: GOD IS NIGERIAN, VIRGIN MARY IS ZULU, AND JESUS?
he Easter holiday, the time when We mark the betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is upon us.
It is thus our duty again, to make sense of this story from a Pan-Africa point of view.
Of course we can’t talk about Christ’s death and resurrection, without taking note of how it all started.
So if the Bible and Christianity story all-African, from which country would God come from?
•I THINK GOD WOULD BE NIGERIAN. Only a Nigerian would be cocky enough to be God. One day, good people, Nigeria will rule Africa.
•I THINK MARY THE VIRGIN WOULD BE A SOUTH AFRICAN WOMAN, SPECIFICALLY A ZULU. Zulu women most approximate the quiet dignity of Mary the Virgin.
•JOSEPH WOULD BE CONGOLESE. He had that mix of sweet naivety and Stoicism which is abundant among Congolese men.
•THE MAGI’S: It is very difficult to place the magi. First, I think they were gay. It's mostly gay men who have magi-type sensitivity. They would likely be from the islands, possibly Cape Verde or Principe and Tome.
•PETER: He betrayed Jesus before the cock crowed three times. To figure out from which country Peter would come from, we need to look to the countries which are most uncomfortable in their African or Arab skin: That is Ethiopians, Egyptians, and Moroccans. I THINK PETER WOULD LIKELY BE AN ETHIOPIAN.
•JUDAS Iscariot the Traitor: Africa is not short of traitors, but in recent times the lies and betrayals that have led to the death of over 200,000 people in Darfur, and the displacement of over another one million, are the worst. JUDAS ISCARIOT WOULD BE NORTHERN SUDANESE.
•The Roman Emperor PILATE: PILATE was a complex character. He wanted to let Jesus off the hook, but he succumbed to the pressure of the masses and had him executed. This wavering between principled action, and acting according to the dictates of opinion polls is most evident in Kenya. And I think PILATE COULD EASILY BE Kenya’s PRIME MINISTER RAILA ODINGA. He is equally complex.
•JESUS CHRIST: This is a tough one, for to be Jesus you need to demonstrate an extraordinary ability to take pain over a long period. There have been many wars and heroic struggles in Africa, but perhaps none reached the extremes of the Algerian war of independence against France, although it lasted only from 1954-62. The Algerians showed remarkable grit. JESUS, THEREFORE, WOULD BE ALGERIAN.
•Finally, Mary Magdalene who was “loitering” outside Jesus’ tomb. Magdalene could only have come from Uganda. And Doreen Lwanga will agree that Magdalene would have been a Muganda woman.
HAPPY EASTER
LET’S PRAY.
It is thus our duty again, to make sense of this story from a Pan-Africa point of view.
Of course we can’t talk about Christ’s death and resurrection, without taking note of how it all started.
So if the Bible and Christianity story all-African, from which country would God come from?
•I THINK GOD WOULD BE NIGERIAN. Only a Nigerian would be cocky enough to be God. One day, good people, Nigeria will rule Africa.
•I THINK MARY THE VIRGIN WOULD BE A SOUTH AFRICAN WOMAN, SPECIFICALLY A ZULU. Zulu women most approximate the quiet dignity of Mary the Virgin.
•JOSEPH WOULD BE CONGOLESE. He had that mix of sweet naivety and Stoicism which is abundant among Congolese men.
•THE MAGI’S: It is very difficult to place the magi. First, I think they were gay. It's mostly gay men who have magi-type sensitivity. They would likely be from the islands, possibly Cape Verde or Principe and Tome.
•PETER: He betrayed Jesus before the cock crowed three times. To figure out from which country Peter would come from, we need to look to the countries which are most uncomfortable in their African or Arab skin: That is Ethiopians, Egyptians, and Moroccans. I THINK PETER WOULD LIKELY BE AN ETHIOPIAN.
•JUDAS Iscariot the Traitor: Africa is not short of traitors, but in recent times the lies and betrayals that have led to the death of over 200,000 people in Darfur, and the displacement of over another one million, are the worst. JUDAS ISCARIOT WOULD BE NORTHERN SUDANESE.
•The Roman Emperor PILATE: PILATE was a complex character. He wanted to let Jesus off the hook, but he succumbed to the pressure of the masses and had him executed. This wavering between principled action, and acting according to the dictates of opinion polls is most evident in Kenya. And I think PILATE COULD EASILY BE Kenya’s PRIME MINISTER RAILA ODINGA. He is equally complex.
•JESUS CHRIST: This is a tough one, for to be Jesus you need to demonstrate an extraordinary ability to take pain over a long period. There have been many wars and heroic struggles in Africa, but perhaps none reached the extremes of the Algerian war of independence against France, although it lasted only from 1954-62. The Algerians showed remarkable grit. JESUS, THEREFORE, WOULD BE ALGERIAN.
•Finally, Mary Magdalene who was “loitering” outside Jesus’ tomb. Magdalene could only have come from Uganda. And Doreen Lwanga will agree that Magdalene would have been a Muganda woman.
HAPPY EASTER
LET’S PRAY.
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